


Perspective

by starspangledsprocket



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: And probably therapy, Angst, Clint Feels, Fix-It, Hydra Y U du dis?, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Steve Rogers Feels, Tony Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Whump, Violence, feels up to the eyeballs, like more than even he can afford, lots of therapy, potentially triggery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starspangledsprocket/pseuds/starspangledsprocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Having seven shades of shit kicked out of you tended to give a guy a sense of perspective, and Tony’s came in the form of realising that he was desperately, madly in love with Steve – had been for the longest time without even realising it, apparently – and, suddenly, the thought that he might never get to see those beautiful blue eyes ever again, or that dorky smile, just furthered his resolve to stay alive."</p><p>Tony is kidnapped. An understanding is reached.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first, proper dip into this fandom. I write prompts over on Tumblr (starspangledsprocket.tumblr.com), but this is the first thing I've written that's more than two thousand words. 
> 
> Included: Some very badly, Google translated German, so please forgive me.  
> Edit: The wonderful emeraldsfire over on Tumblr gave me the proper translations, so thank you for that! 
> 
> Also, READ THE WARNINGS. None of it is too explicit (more implied), but if you feel like it might trigger you, I'd give it a miss.

Tony, honestly, didn’t know how he’d managed to get himself into this situation again. He had actually been actively trying _not_ to piss people off who had the propensity to want to grind his bones for their bread.

He was _growing as a person_.

Seriously, though, he really hadn’t done anything wrong this time. Well, except fight back as they cornered him on his stroll to the restaurant where he was supposed to be meeting Bruce and Steve, but it wasn’t like he was just going to lie down and take it.

_Steve._

He wouldn’t call what he had with the super soldier _dating_ , per say, but there was definitely something between them now that – post-breakup – Pepper had threatened to remove their dicks completely if they didn’t quit it with the ‘fucking pissing contest’, as she had so eloquently put it.

(Needless to say, they’d become fast friends after that.)

In fact, they were now so close that Tony trusted Steve with his life (and, if he was being really honest with himself, his heart, too, though he wasn’t quite ready to admit that to anyone quite yet. Most of all, Steve.)

It was for this exact reason, though, that he didn’t completely panic and relapse into his post-New York PTSD when the three thugs finally got a lucky shot in and sent him to his knees in the dank alleyway, before swiftly bagging his head and restraining him with – what felt like – handcuffs. After that there was a lot of shifting about as he was carted off to fuck-knows-where, but still Tony didn’t panic, because one thought kept him calmer than, frankly, he had been in years:

_Steve is coming for me. Steve won’t let me die. And if Steve can be brave for me, then I need to be brave for him._

He kept those three sentences looping around his brain on repeat as, with a strangled cry of German (which meant _shit, HYDRA_ ), the billionaire was tossed bodily to the floor – still handcuffed and unable to see through the burlap sack on his head – which meant he landed oddly, and with a grunt of pain, on his shoulder.

They had arrived at their destination, then.

 

~--~

The tapes were sickening.

The first one had suddenly appeared on a SHIELD server about a week after Tony’s mysterious disappearance. A week since the Avengers had started a frantic (and depressingly fruitless) man hunt.

The quality of the video was grainy at best, but that just made the whole situation that much worse. Steve had only been able to stomach it once – hadn’t even been able to force himself to watch the others as they subsequently popped up, for fear of what might be on them – and, even then, he’d had to excuse himself immediately to have a private panic attack in a SHIELD broom closet.

The video showed Tony, strapped to a chair by his legs and torso, and with his hands spread wide on the bloody, splintered table in front of him – also strapped down by the wrists. The recording itself was horrifically reminiscent of the glimpses he had seen of the tape made and sent to Obadiah Stane whilst Tony had been in Afghanistan.

(Steve hadn’t been able to watch all of that one, either, and that wasn’t half as bad as this.)

At first, it began like any other ransom tape: a man with his face blurred out spoke in rapid German while Tony simply stared around, looking confused and afraid. SHIELD had translated the terms – money, power, technology, bla, bla, bla – but Steve couldn’t really remember exactly what they were by the time the last line was spoken:

“Für jeden Tag, den Sie den Forderungen nicht nachkommen, wird Tony Stark ein wenig mehr gebrochen.”

_“For every day that you don’t meet the demands, Tony Stark will be broken just a little bit more.”_

And then the man – the _animal_ – had picked up a _hammer_ from somewhere out of shot. Steve’s nightmares would forever be haunted by that bastard’s sick cackle of laughter as, one by one, he brought the hammer down on each of Tony’s exposed fingers.

The cracking of bones wasn’t likely to leave him any time soon, either.

And that wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part – the absolutely _diabolical_ part – was that Tony didn’t even flinch. The poor, poor man’s eyes were impossibly wide and far, far away whilst silent tears fell, but he never made a sound. Never made a movement.

Never fought back.

That was the point where Steve found himself bolting from the debriefing room – not caring as the others watched on, because he needed _out_ – and sort of blanked, until he looked around and realised he was in some kind of dingy closet, with his breathing ragged and his thoughts wild.

They had taken Tony from him. Before he had had a chance to tell him.

The thought that he might, now, never get the chance caused a wave of nausea the likes of which Steve hadn’t felt since he was a sickly kid to rip through him.

He had to get Tony back.

He _had_ to. 

 

 

~--~

Tony couldn’t stand up any more.

He was vaguely aware that his left kneecap was now floating around somewhere near his shin, and his right foot was nothing more than a battered, bloody stump of shattered bone and mangled skin.

His perception of time was, admittedly, getting a little bit skewered; spending numerous hours alone and in a dark, cold, windowless room that was no bigger than a prison cell – and he supposed that’s what it _was_ , really – tended to do that to a person (and being repeatedly smacked in the head with a baseball bat probably wasn’t helping, either).

They dragged him off down the hall to another room at regular intervals to undergo a fresh beating in front of a camera, too. At the beginning, he had thought it only happened once a day, but now he wasn’t so sure.

There was one thing he did know for sure, though. If there was a camera, that meant there were tapes. And if there were tapes, that meant the Avengers had probably seen them.

 _Steve_ had seen them. Seen _him_ , like _this_.

It made him want to curl up into a ball and cry, because Steve shouldn’t _ever_ have to see him like this – none of the Avengers should. But Tony wasn’t one to curl up in a ball and cry – mostly because his shattered ribs were prodding against his internal organs, and it was already hard enough to breathe through the blood clogging his throat and nose – because, if nothing else, he was a Stark.

(And, if his father had taught him one thing – other than _it’s never too early to start drinking_ – it’s that Starks didn’t give up in the face of adversity.)

So, even though the pain was, more often than not, blinding (or _completely_ blinding, at any rate, because the swelling on the right side of his face meant he couldn’t see out of his right eye anyway), and he was floating somewhere dangerously close to unconsciousness at all times, he didn’t complain. He didn’t say anything, actually, and wasn’t that just the damnest thing?

Tony Stark, finally silenced.

But he hadn’t been silenced; not really. He was saving his strength for when Steve and the Avengers finally showed up, because, against all hope, they couldn’t quite beat _that_ out of him. There was no doubt in his mind that the others would figure out where he was eventually, and, when they did, _shit was going to hit the fan_. And Tony needed to be prepared to help with his escape.

He needed to be brave for Steve.

Because, really, he couldn’t kid himself any longer. Having seven shades of shit kicked out of you tended to give a guy a sense of perspective, and Tony’s came in the form of realising that he was desperately, madly in love with Steve – had been for the longest time without even realising it, apparently – and, suddenly, the thought that he might never get to see those beautiful blue eyes ever again, or that dorky smile, just furthered his resolve to stay alive.

(It also made him feel even sicker than he already did, but he couldn’t focus on that.)

So, he would stay alive. That was non-negotiable. He would stay alive for as long as it took, and Steve would come and get him, and Tony would be _damned_ if he didn’t get to tell the soldier how he really felt. He was sick of the flirtatious game they had been playing; tired of the merry dance they had been leading each other on in the months since Loki’s attack with the Chitauri. He wanted… fuck, he just wanted to be held. That was all. He just wanted to fall asleep, safe and warm in Steve’s arms, and wake up to golden hair and gentle smiles, stolen kisses and lazy mornings.

 _Shit_. The threat of death and being repeatedly tortured made him _so_ PMS-y.

 

 

~--~

Of course, Steve’s first thought – and he was rather proud of his genius on this front – was to just _give HYDRA whatever it was they wanted_. But, after many long, often heated arguments with Director Fury (which always included something along the lines of “I won’t stand by and watch them beat Tony to death!” and “SHIELD does not negotiate with terrorists, Captain. We can’t give in to their demands and we can’t lose control of the situation – that’s exactly what they want.”), Steve realised, begrudgingly, that the man was probably right.

He didn’t have to like it, though.

But Steve knew that now, more than ever, the team needed to pull together. He was perfectly aware of the looks the other Avengers kept shooting him – a mixture of worry, and, more mortifyingly, _understanding_ on their faces – and he knew his number was up. He hadn’t exactly been subtle about it.

He, Steve Rogers, was in love with Tony Stark.

He didn’t know exactly when his feelings had evolved from _I think you’re the most insufferable man I’ve ever met_ to something closer to _You are the absolute light of my life_ , but he figured it had to have been some time after Tony had invited them all to live in his tower. Seeing the genius in his natural environment had cemented in Steve one, single thought:

_Tony Stark is incredible._

After that, he kept noticing little things about the genius – minuscule things, really – that further proved his initial assumptions wrong. The way he worked his ass off to subtly make sure that Bruce was eating and socialising enough, even though he didn’t seem to understand that he had a very similar problem; how he had sat for hours with Steve, explaining to him the ins and outs of modern technology in language that the soldier could understand; that he yelled at Clint every time the archer sprang out of one of the vents unannounced, but muttered to keep them open whenever JARVIS asked if he should lock them, because they all knew Clint had a nest up there somewhere, and that was where he felt safest. They were all mere examples of Tony’s individual way of protecting his friends. His _family_.

And, god, Steve could not have been more wrong about him.

Now… well, now Steve was sat in yet another debriefing room somewhere in the depths of the Helicarrier, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and bouncing his leg impatiently in his seat as, finally, _finally_ , they were being briefed to go after him.

It had been almost three weeks. If he had to wait much longer, Steve was seriously considering turning evil and rowing back to shore on Fury’s dead body to go after Tony himself. But he had to wait. He had to be patient, because, apparently, Fury had some important information to tell them before they left.

“So, thanks to Doctor Banner,” the Director began from the head of the table, nodding once in Bruce’s direction, “we’ve finally managed to break through all of HYDRA’s firewalls and viruses and locate the co-ordinates of where the tapes are originating from.”

“So why are we still here?” Clint asked, almost as twitchy as Steve by this point.

“Because…” Fury paused – actually _paused_ , and that was never a good sign – to bodily sigh, before, with a finger and thumb rubbing at his eyes, “…because Agent Hill just finished watching today’s tape…”

Now it was the Avengers’ turn to pause.

“… _And_?” Natasha finally asked, cautious.

“And I need you all to be aware of the extent of Stark’s injuries, so you don’t… lose objectivity once you get to him…”

Steve was a soldier. He knew what that actually meant. He knew what Fury was really saying was _Tony is barely alive, and I need you not to lose your shit when you find him_.

He felt sick again. Panic was rising in his chest like a biological storm.

“From Hill’s report, it’s become apparent that Stark has been subjected to…” Fury was still talking, and Steve forced himself to listen, even though he wanted nothing more than to lie down on the floor and wait for the world to stop spinning, “…sexual abuse.”

_Sexual abuse._

Steve heard the outburst of cries and questions from the others, but he felt as if he were underwater; the noise was disjointed and seemed far away, and was quickly falling away to no more than a high-pitched ringing. His sight was blurry and, with a start, he realised he was crying.

_Sexual abuse._

While Steve had been sitting around, waiting for someone else to come up with a solution while he twiddled his thumbs, Tony had… they’d…

“STEVE!”

He jerked forwards, realising Bruce had appeared in front of him. One of the doctor’s hands rested on the side of Steve’s face, and he looked deeply troubled as he leant forwards to get a good look at him.

“Steve, I know how hard this must be for you,” he was still talking softly, reassuringly, and gave the back of Steve’s neck a reassuring squeeze as his hand moved to rest there, “but we need Captain America right now. Fury’s not going to allow you on the mission if you’re compromised like this.”

Deep down, Steve knew Bruce was right – knew they were all right – but it was just so _hard_. This was _his_ fault; if he’d walked to the restaurant with Tony that night, this wouldn’t have happened, because Steve would have bowed down to _Hitler_ before he let anyone take Tony from his sight. And, even now, he could have been out in the last three weeks, searching himself. Just because they didn’t have any leads didn’t mean he definitely wouldn’t have found him regardless.

But Bruce _was_ right. The team needed Captain America – strong, capable Captain America – and not compromised-by-the-hole-in-his-chest Steve Rogers.

 _Tony_ needed Captain America. Now, more than ever.

And so, taking a deep, deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart that seemed intent on beating right out of his chest, Steve wiped the tears from his eyes and gave Bruce a slight nod.

He rose from his seat as Captain America and, fists clenched by his sides, addressed his team.

“Let’s get Stark back.”

 

 

~--~

He couldn’t do it any more. He _couldn’t_ – not after…

They hadn’t even given him his clothes back. Nope, they were long gone, along with the last shreds of his dignity. He’d finally _snapped_. After all this time being so strong, he had finally broken his silence.

_Oh, how he had broken his silence._

Steve was going to be _so_ disappointed in him.

They had laid him with his back purposefully to the door, knowing full well that he couldn’t quite move on his own any more, so he wouldn’t even see them coming now. Not that he could really see properly at _all_ since they’d brought the chemicals out to play, but he could still make out the change in light and the vague shape of figures if he tried really hard, and they’d taken even that away from him, too.

Between the nerve damage, where he was blessedly numb, he could feel something hot and sticky trailing down the backs of his thighs, and couldn’t figure out if it was blood or… another bodily fluid. He found he didn’t really care any more.

More than anything, he prayed for unconsciousness, but it always seemed to be just one step away from him – and he hadn’t been able to stand, never mind take a step, in what felt like forever – so he stopped trying to chase it.

He didn’t deserve that sort of relief.

But where was the team? Where was _Steve_? Tony had assumed they would come for him (they were supposed to be friends now, right? A… dare he say it? _Family_?), so where were they? He must have gotten it wrong – must have misread something somewhere along the lines – because he didn't know exactly how long he had been holed up in this hell, but, surely, they would have found him by now? And if they couldn't find him, wouldn't they have at least sent some sort of message?

He thought he might have started crying again at that thought, but, without the strength to lift his arms, he couldn't be sure it wasn't blood or puss from his mangled eyes. He wasn't even sure if he was capable of crying after what HYDRA had done to him. He felt empty, alone, hopeless.

Tony didn't really feel human at all.

His very soul throbbed in agony – not all of it physical – and, not for the first time, he cursed his inner strength. Why couldn't he just sleep? Just for a little while – just to give his body a chance to heal – and then he could plan his own escape.

He didn't need the Avengers. He had been on his own for most of his life and, yeah, it hadn't been all butterflies and rainbows, but, hey, it was the real world. It wasn't always going to be pretty. And, if he could manage to keep himself alive all that time, then he could do it again. Just because the Avengers had given him a sense of purpose and belonging didn't mean he couldn't function without them. Just because Steve had given him hope that he might actually be able to love again after he and Pepper had finally decided to call it quits didn't mean that he should feel like his heart had shattered along with most of his bones because _Steve wasn't there when Tony needed him most_.

Tony was, and always would be, a lone wolf.

So why did he feel like nothing more than an abandoned pup?

 

 

~--~

His mind was getting more and more scattered. He didn’t know how much more time had passed since they had last come to him, and he thought he might have spaced out for a while, there.

He felt like he was missing something, but he wasn’t really sure what. _Damn blood loss_.

He’d just have to ask Steve when he arrived, see if he knew what Tony was supposed to be remembering. But… no, wait, that’s right – Steve wasn’t coming.

Why wasn’t Steve coming, again?

A little, hysterical chuckle left his lips before he really noticed – before he had chance to stop himself, because it _hurt_.

Steve wasn’t coming. _Coming_.

Only, he realised, sobering immediately, he knew _exactly_ why Steve and the Avengers weren’t coming to get him. He was damaged goods now – spoiled beyond compare for an average person, never mind _Captain America_ – so there was really no wonder why Steve hadn’t tried to rescue him.

Tony was a fool to ever think he would, really.

Why would Steve – perfect, loyal, Steve – ever go for anyone as royally fucked (and he meant that in more than one sense, now) up as him? Why would Steve settle when he could perfectly easily get whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted?

But it was fine. It was fine, because Tony had JARVIS, and Dum-E, and U to love and be loved by.

Huh. JARVIS could probably use an upgrade.

Ok, yeah, no, blood loss was definitely doing something to his train of thought.

But then, out of nowhere, an explosion rocked the room so violently that Tony was forcibly rolled onto his back with a sharp gasp of pain. His vision swam, and, for a moment, he was sure he was going to vomit. Heaving as much air into his battered chest as he was physically capable of doing – and, at this point, that really wasn't a lot – he willed away the nausea, because, if nothing else, he didn't want his headstone to read 'Tony Stark: choked on his own puke'.

By the time the sickness had, thankfully, passed, Tony thought he could hear an assortment of voices somewhere quite close (though, having said that, it was perfectly reasonable to assume they were all in his head at this point, because he was just erring on the wrong side of crazy), but, with the blood that clogged his ears, he couldn't be certain. He thought some of the voices might even have been familiar, but, again, he couldn't trust even his own judgement these days.

A second explosion sounded, and this time it must have been closer, because dust and bits of stone rained down on Tony's spent body from the ceiling as, once again, his limbs contorted with the shaking of the ground beneath him. He landed pretty much back in his original position – facing away from the door – except now his right arm rested agonisingly awkwardly under the weight of the rest of his body.

He couldn't stop the second wave of nausea as it took its brutal revenge on him, though, and simply opened his mouth to allow vomit to spill onto the ground by his head. Never before had he been in so much _pain_. His throat – already inflamed and sore from when his captors had taken their turns with him earlier – burned as the meagre contents of his latest meal made a reappearance, and his stomach felt as if it were tearing itself apart from the inside out. There was a dampness on his face again, and this time Tony knew full well that it was tears, because he simply couldn't stop himself from crying when he was certain that this was how he was going to die – covered in his own vomit and blood, with a torn asshole full of spunk, and completely alone.

And, on top of all that – god fucking _damn it_ – his brain was telling him he could hear Steve's voice. It wasn't real, of course (Steve had better ways to spend his time than throwing himself unnecessarily into danger on Tony's behalf), and Tony hated himself for realising – right at the end – that he still needed whatever small offering of Steve his body was willing to give him. He would cling to that soft, panicked tone until his last breath.

Wait...

The third bang that came from somewhere behind him was different from the previous two, and it took an embarrassingly long time for Tony to realise that that was because it wasn't an explosion, but the sound of the door breaking off its hinges. He couldn't stop his body from tensing with muscle memories at that realisation, and all Tony could see behind his fluttering eyelids were their hideously greasy smirks and cold eyes as they reached out for him, as they pinned his arms...

“ – important that you keep the dear Captain away from this place, Hawkeye -”

“ – Thor’s got him; we need to -”

“ – gotta roll, Cap – can't let you -”

“ – another group headed this way -”

“ – is he? Clint, get the hell out of my way! Tony? _Tony_!”

And, reality or not, Tony would never be strong enough to ignore the raw terror that he heard in Steve's voice.

Drawing in another half-lungful of air, he used all of his remaining strength to force his weary eyes open. The first thing he saw was – what appeared to be – some kind of yellow ball of fluff. But, upon closer inspection, Tony realised that it was actually Thor's head swimming before his watery eyes. Beyond that, the ceiling (which meant he must have moved again, but couldn't bring his aching head to remember when).

“Ah, there you are, brother,” was breathed in the gentlest voice Tony had ever heard Thor use – but, hey, blood clogging his ears, so that was probably why. “I was sure, for a second, that you had gone to the one place we could not follow.”

Tony couldn't bring himself to answer – wasn't sure if he could physically form words at all, now, never mind try to decode what the hell Thor was talking about – because the sudden flood of relief that was coursing through his beaten body made him feel light-headed and left him trembling.

“ – need to get to him!”

“You need to remember what Fury said! You _need_ – Thor, I can't hold him off much longer, buddy!”

There was _His_ voice again, so filled with emotion that, once more, Tony didn't attempt to stop the tears from pouring down his mangled face.

_He had come after all._

But then a fluttering of red was attracting Tony's attention back to Thor's drawn face. He realised – with a start – that the god was draping his cape across his bloodied, battered torso.

“Your wounds are great,” he rumbled in the same, soft tone, “and we have all missed you achingly, Anthony, but none more so than our dear Captain. It will do him great grievance to see you suffering so -”

“ – Tony!”

And then, quite inexplicably, Thor wasn't in his line of sight any more. Tony didn't dwell on that too closely, though, because – the very next moment – he was replaced with the most beautiful picture in the entire world.

“Ste -” he managed, before it all became too much, before the weight of all that had happened finally came crashing down around his bloodied ears, because _Steve had come to save him_.

“ – fucking Christ, there's so much blood and – god, look at what they've done to your face, sweetheart, Tony? It's going to be all right, I – shit, Jesus, okay -”

Steve was talking to him. He should really be listening, because Steve was talking to him, but Tony found himself transfixed on the man's lips as they swayed before his vision, and his words were beginning to fade out again.

“ – need you to stay awake, Tony! I need you to -”

But he couldn't stay awake, no matter how hard he tried. He was vaguely aware of Steve's hands tugging his body towards him, and it should have hurt – should have been unbearable by this point – but finally, blessedly, he couldn't feel a thing. All Tony knew was that he was safe in Steve's arms, just as he'd wanted all along, and that thought alone was enough to carry him off into the darkness unafraid.

 

 

~--~

Steve couldn't breathe.

It was funny, really (in one of those this-isn't-funny-in-the-slightest ways), that now he could finally see Tony – knew that Tony was, in fact, still alive, if the small, jerking movement in his chest was anything to go by – that he was really starting to fall apart. He hadn't even realised he had thrown Thor bodily out of the way until he was knelt with Tony's unconscious body cradled to his chest.

And, good lord, Fury had been right; Tony's wounds were terrible. His front had been covered by Thor (and Steve silently thanked whoever was listening for that, because he didn't think he could cope with physically seeing what they had done to the love of his life), but, as he held Tony close, he could feel the lacerations and stickiness of blood that spread across the genius's naked back.

Distantly, he was aware that the others were yelling at him – that they needed to leave, and quickly – and Steve knew they were right, knew that Tony needed medical attention _stat_. Taking a deep, rattling breath that really shouldn't have been so difficult (because he wasn’t the one who had had the living daylights beaten out of him, god damn-it), Steve, once again, melted away to become Captain America.

Captain America was useful. Steve, right now, was not.

Bracing himself on his knees, the Captain rose, bracketing Stark against his chest in a way he hoped wouldn’t cause any more damage than was already done. He threw a simple shake of his head in reply to Thor’s worried gaze, wordlessly pleading the god not to break his focus. After another measured breath, he was crossing the room towards Hawkeye, who stood – silhouetted – in the door frame.

“Widow?” he asked, and the small part of his brain that was still Steve barely recognised his own voice.

“Rounding up Hulk,” was Hawkeye’s strained reply, his sharp eyes trained on Stark. “He was busy picking off stragglers – seemed angrier than usual.”

His joke fell flat, and his face remained stony as he stepped aside to let them pass. The Captain trusted both Hawkeye and Thor to follow along behind him, and to call in Hulk and Black Widow, because the only way he was going to be able to get both himself and Stark back to the Quinjet – where a medical team was waiting pre-emptively for their arrival – was if he could simply focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Otherwise, he was certain his supposed absolute control was going to crack and shatter around him.

The journey through the – mostly, by now – empty base was a complete blur of colour and noise and _get Stark back to the Quinjet._ But then, finally, _finally_ , a breeze swept across the Captain’s face, alerting him to the fact that he was outside, and he took his first breath since – what felt like – the one he had forced out of his mouth before exiting Stark’s holding cell.

He set his sight on the Quinjet – still some two hundred feet from him – and let himself see nothing else as he strode towards it. Someone was yelling on his comm. line, but he didn’t know who it was. He was too busy steering his body towards the medical staff that were spilling out of the plane in front of him.

After pressing Stark’s body into the arms of a medical professional – making sure that the idiot wasn’t going to _drop him_ in his haste – he kept walking, ignoring the calls for medication and the pleas for him to answer their questions, up the ramp and into the Quinjet. Once there, it was all he could do to keep himself from sprinting across the space and into the barely-one-man bathroom.

Inside, he didn’t even bother to lock the door – knew that nobody would _dare_ interrupt him like this. With another, strangled drag of breath, he fell to his trembling knees as Steve – not the Captain – and, as tears spilled down his cheeks, he emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet beside him with an agonised cry.

 

 

~--~

Consciousness was _definitely_ overrated.

And the reason that Tony knew that, unfortunately, was because, as he slowly regained his, he came to the realisation that every fibre of his being _hurt_. Although, he mused, it wasn’t so much a piercing agony, as a bone deep ache that left his body throbbing and lethargic.

For a moment he laid completely still – eyes stubbornly closed – and just listened to the sounds around him. It was only then, of course, that he realised he _could_ actually hear the sounds around him – the steady, rhythmic beeping of a number of machines, and a quiet, easy breathing he was sure wasn’t his own. For a moment his foggy brain was confused, because all he could remember was blood, and pain, and the sound of his own screaming, before, with a jolt that made his eyes snap open, he remembered.

_Steve had come to save him after all._

And, suddenly, his breathing was sharp in his chest as his eyes flew across the dark hospital room, because he had to find Steve – needed to make sure he was safe, too – and he had to tell him, had to make him _see_ what had gotten Tony through his imprisonment, and –

 _Oh_.

There he was, right by Tony’s bedside in one of those tiny, uncomfortable visitor’s chairs. His head rested right beside Tony’s hand – right beside, he realised with a heady rush – where he had linked their fingers together. The steady rise and fall of the curve of his back was soothing, and Tony didn’t care if it was clichéd and sappy – he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

But he was selfish – he knew full well that he was. He needed to see more, needed to see the electric blue of Steve’s eyes and the perpetual upwards curve of his luscious, pink lips, and so, shifting uncomfortably on his mattress, he murmured, “ _Steve_.”

Only, it ended up coming out more like a pained hiss, because his throat seemed unable to cooperate with his will to speak. With a garbled “margggghllff” of frustration, he tried again, and his impression of a dying cat degenerated into a series of hacking coughs that lit his chest ablaze.

“Holy shit, you’re actually awake!” came a familiar caw from somewhere nearby, before, inexplicably, Clint had appeared at the other side of his bed, and was pressing a cup of something cool and liquid to his sore lips.

Tony took a few grateful gulps of the water, and it burned like ice as it slid down his inflamed throat. It felt _amazing_. His coughing fit had left him short of breath, though, so, after a few more swallows, he batted weakly at Clint’s side with his free hand and, luckily, the archer got the message and put the glass down again, giving Tony room to breathe.

He rotated his stiff neck back towards Steve, but, amazingly, the man was still sound asleep. He was about to attempt another round of rouse-the-Captain when Clint cut him off with, “I know you’re glad to see him, but leave him to sleep just a little longer, ‘kay? Last time he crashed was over a week ago…”

Tony wouldn’t begrudge himself the crick he got in his neck as his head flew back to Clint, who was now perched on his own visitor’s chair like the bird he was. The edges of the archer’s mouth curved up in the ghost of a sad smile, and, for the first time in all the length he had known him, Tony thought he looked old. Old, and incredibly worn down.

“It’s… you’ve been in the hospital for two and a half months,” Clint admitted, and Tony’s head began to pound at the mere thought. “You died… like, seven times…”

And his tone was airy – obviously trying for a joke – but Clint’s eyes were horribly dark in the light shining through the door. He shifted, and, suddenly, he was gripping Tony’s free hand in his own. But, where Steve’s hold was light and supportive, Clint’s was desperate, and just on the wrong side of too hard.

“Don’t, _ever_ , go out unprotected again, do you hear me?” he hissed, but there was no real anger in his tone, just frantic relief that made Tony want to curl into a ball and weep. “Do you understand how _awful_ it’s been, seeing you like –“

But, thankfully, he managed to cut himself off before finishing his sentence. Instead, he took a deep, shuddering breath, and his face blanked over again as he moulded his features back into an expression of neutrality.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, glancing down at their still entwined hands, “that was uncalled for after you’ve just woken up. I – how are you feeling?”

_Emotionally crippled, devastated, as though I’m going to throw up a lung._

“Like roadkill,” Tony decided on, finally, and his throat still roared its protest at his speaking, but at least he managed to make it sound like words, even if he was nailing an impression of a twenty-year-long chain smoker, now.

Sexy.

“Ah, good, matches how you look, then.”

And, this time, there was some genuine humour behind Clint’s words, which eased something heavy and throbbing in Tony’s stomach. The archer’s posture was still much too tense for his liking, but Tony found himself drawn towards any little piece of their old dynamic he could get, instead of focusing on how badly he’d fucked up.

“It’s… you should have died,” Clint sighed, eyes on his lap, and his voice was just so broken that, for a second, Tony was confused. “The… the things they _did_ to you –“

“ _Clint_ ,” Tony found himself pleading, because he couldn’t think about that, couldn’t allow himself to be drawn back there to that hell – not now.

“I know, I know,” he replied, giving Tony’s hand another reassuring squeeze. With another sigh, he closed his eyes for a second, and, suddenly, he looked so old again. “I just… _god, Stark_ , we didn’t… there were no leads, but the tapes just kept coming through, and –“ he took another deep, shuddering breath, “ – we _tried_ , ok? So, god-damned hard. We never stopped looking – not once – but there was no sign –“

“Clint,” Tony repeated, bemused. Why did the guy sound so guilty? “You know you don’t have to apologise to me, right, Bird Brain? I… I knew you’d come get me in the end.”

He hated how his voice shook, how he couldn’t stop the tears welling up in his eyes, but – most of all – the anguished helplessness his display seemed to cause Clint.

“I, please don’t cry. I’m really not the guy you want to be crying in front of,” the archer babbled, panicked, but he still reached out to wipe a few errant wet patches from Tony’s cheeks.

“Sorry, sorry,” Tony replied, sniffling in order to get himself under control – because he _could_ get himself under control, damn-it.

“Don’t you _dare_ apologise for –“

“– I don’t… You said I should have died. No, Clint, seriously, I’m fine –“ he batted the archer’s hands away again, “– I’m fine now, I swear. Moment of weakness over. But, seriously, I believe you when you said I should have died, because there was a lot of pain – there’s still a hell of a lot more pain than I’m really comfortable with – but I’m not dead and I was sure I was going to be, so what happened? I think I kinda have a right to know –“

“Steve happened, is what,” Clint huffed, clearly not happy with Tony’s attempt at steering the conversation away from his still watery eyes and – if he was being honest with himself, which he seemed to be doing more and more often lately – shaking hands.

Without meaning to, Tony glanced over at the sleeping super soldier again. God, but he was perfect, even though his hair looked matted and greasy in the dim light, with his skin a lot paler than he remembered.

Tony frowned. “What do you mean, Steve happened?”

“It… wasn’t pleasant –“ Clint seemed to be choosing his words carefully, which was odd. He never chose his words carefully, “– seeing him try to cope with you being gone.”

Suddenly, Tony’s head was spinning, because what? Nothing seemed to be making sense any more – first Clint seemed to be apologising and feeling all guilty, and now he was saying… had Steve… _missed_ him? He really hoped he hadn’t misunderstood, because he was pretty sure he wasn’t strong enough to deal with Steve’s rejection yet. Or _ever_.

“He –“ the Bird Brain was still talking, so Tony made himself listen, because this was important, “ – kept having panic attacks, I think. Well, he kept locking himself in this SHIELD store closet for hours at a time, so he was either having a panic attack or jerking off, and I don’t think any of us felt particularly sexy at that point, never mind _Captain America_ , so it was probably the panic attack thing. He… you have to understand it from our point of view, okay? You just _disappeared_ – vanished off the face of the Earth – and we know you do that sometimes, but usually we can just ask JARVIS and he’ll tell us you’ve gone on a business trip, or went out for a fly to test the new thrusters on the suit, or whatever. We know that, even if you can’t tell us where you’re going, you can tell him.

“But, Tony, dude, JARVIS had _no idea_ where you’d gone. Last thing he saw was you leaving through the front entrance, then… just, nothing. No distress signal, no phone call, nothing. Do you understand how terrifying that was? Because, believe it or not, we actually quite like having you around. You’re an ass, sure, but you’re _our_ ass, y’know?”

Tony was speechless. Clint looked so lost, so adamant about making him understand what he was trying to say, and Tony found himself encapsulated by the story, even though he desperately wanted the archer to shut his god-damned mouth.

“And that was just the rest of us,” Clint continued, oblivious to Tony’s inner plight. “Steve was… distraught. He wandered around like a ghost; I don’t even think he realised what he was doing half the time, to be honest. We thought it’d get better once we actually found you, but…” He trailed off to take a deep breath, before letting it out in a sigh, “…he’s refused to leave this room since you arrived. He, _god, Tony_ , when we _found_ you – he was just… I’ve never seen him look so disengaged before. He, Jesus, he could have gotten you both killed, because it was like he couldn’t even _see_ the HYDRA agents around him, he was so focused.

“But, then, he just… he _broke_. He managed to get you out to the Quinjet, then he locked himself in the bathroom for the whole journey back. And, look, all right, he was an absolutely shitty leader – he was; don’t try to defend him, because you were barely _alive_ , never mind _conscious_ – but no one wants to hear Captain America sobbing into a toilet bowl, all right?”

Tony felt sick. He was confused, and he was certain his breathing was uneven again, but what could he expect when he was certain he was about to throw up his insides?

 _He had broken Steve_. Loyal, kind, _beautiful_ Steve, who cared enough to have stayed by his side for two and a half months. Steve, who looked so worn down and wrung out, all because of Tony’s carelessness.

All because of Tony.

“Hey, asshole, don’t you dare start hyperventilating on me!”

Then, there was a gentle hand on his face, and it still hurt, but the intention was very clearly not one of malice, so Tony allowed his head to be turned back round to Clint – and, huh, when had he turned to look at Steve again?

“You need to listen to me, okay?” Clint told him, and his voice was urgent now. “I’m not telling you these things to make you feel shitty, okay? I promise I’m not. But you need to understand that you are _not_ expendable, not to us, and _certainly_ not to Steve.

“But you asked me how you’re still alive, even after everything they did to you,” Clint took yet another deep breath, and this time he just looked pained as he dropped his hand again after ensuring Tony’s breathing was calming down. “And I told you it was Steve. And it was, Tony. He… they took you straight into surgery, but there were too many… Your injuries had already gone so long without being treated that they’d caused stuff to start to shut down – important stuff, y’know, like your brain and your heart and such – and even modern medicine can only go so far, y’know?

“I don’t know how it actually came up – Bruce was the only one allowed into surgery with you – but he came bursting out with blood all over his hands and shirt, and nearly scared us all half to death, and dragged Steve back inside with him. So, then, we were all like _what the fuck?_ and had to sit out in the hall like _homeless people_ for another _seven hours_ – and do you know how boring hospitals are? They’re _shit_ – before Bruce finally came back out again and said you’d probably make it.

“Do you know what they did? What _Steve_ did?” Tony shook his head, unable to speak over the lump in his throat and the tongue that was glued to the roof of his mouth. Clint gave him a calculating look, before it slumped into something softer. “Bruce has blood samples for all of us on file, apparently, and it’s a good fucking job he knows how to keep cool in a crisis, because he remembered that – of all of us – you and Steve are the only two that share the same blood type.

“You _should_ have died. Your injuries were too great for them to have done anything other than ease the pain just a little, but Steve… Steve has the super solider serum. He has the super soldier serum, and he also has the same blood type as you, so they just… transfused some. Not a lot, apparently, because – who knew – it’s _really fucking dangerous and untested_ , but… yeah. Since you didn’t immediately start convulsing and puking in circles like some scary exorcism fuckery, they’ve been giving you bi-weekly transfusions, and, y’know, you’ve been getting stronger and stuff, so that’s good. I’m not a doctor, but I think they’ll probably stop now you’re awake, so your body can heal on its own, but… yeah. Steve saved you.”

Tony was crying again. And, this time, Clint didn’t move to wipe away his tears.

Steve had given his _blood_ – had given away part of what made him who he was – to Tony, even though he had caused him nothing but pain and anguish these past months.

“Why?” Tony rasped, desperate for the answer. “Why does he care so much?”

“If you don’t know the answer to that,” Clint replied without pause, voice soft, but absolutely certain, “then you’re a lot stupider than I thought you were.”

They sat quietly for a few moments after that, allowing Tony to really contemplate Steve’s actions. Could Clint really be saying what he thought he was? He had promised himself that he would tell the man how he felt as soon as he had escaped captivity, but he hadn’t really thought about the idea of his feelings being _reciprocated_.

Could it really be true? Could the man he had kept himself alive for really, truly love Tony as Tony loved him?

“All right, Brokeback Mountain, I’m gonna take off,” Clint finally snapped him out of his thoughts, and Tony realised the other man was on his feet. “We made a pact that whoever was here when you woke up would immediately call the others to let them know. I’ve already broken that pact for you, you ass, so I’m going to redeem myself by calling them now. That, and I need coffee, because I don’t even know what day it is any more, never mind the time.”

And so, with that, he strode over to the door and pulled it open. He did, however, turn to flash a little grin in Tony’s direction before he left, and added, “It’s good to have you back. And, if I haven’t made myself perfectly clear, I’m leaving to give you an opportunity to stick your tongue down Steve’s throat, okay? Don’t waste it, because the others will be racing over here as soon as I call with the news, and none of us want to see any of that shit.”

With another cheeky grin at Tony’s disgruntled expression, the archer closed the door behind him. Hard.

Hard enough, apparently, to finally stir a super solider from his nap, because Steve let out a little groan from beside him, before – seemingly realising where he was – he jerked awake and into a sitting position that was instantly alert and searching for threats.

Tony found himself frozen in place, momentarily speechless, because it had just, finally, hit him that he was safe – that Steve had taken him away from that awful place – and that Steve, too, was safe.

His sob was choked off, because he didn't want Steve to see him like this the moment he had woken up (and where were all these emotions _coming_ from? He hadn't had any for twenty years, and now, suddenly, they were all happening at once), but, ironically, Steve seemed to think he was actually choking, because he turned around so quickly even _Tony_ felt the whip-lash.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” the blonde whispered, blue eyes (and Tony was immeasurably soothed upon realising they were exactly how he remembered them, only _prettier_ ) wide with shock. His hands flew forwards as if to grab Tony, but seemed to think better of it halfway through the action, and so just – sort of – flailed in mid-air.

“I – I -” he stuttered, adorably flustered, but the look on his face was so, god-damn hopeful that Tony couldn't look away. “You're awake, Tony, and I – how are you feeling? I mean, you look better; a little tired, still, but we can – _you_ can, sorry – get some more rest, and the doctors said you'd be fine, now. I don't think you'll need any more of my blood – not that I wouldn't give it, if it would save you, because I needed to save you, you see? But they said, once you could wake up by yourself, you should start getting better pretty quick, and god, Tony, you don't know how worried I've – the team – have been. I, you -”

“I am so in love with you,” Tony cut his babbling off simply, with a croaky laugh at the simplicity of it all, as it settled into place in his chest. He wiped the tears from his face, not even caring if Steve didn't return his affections – just saying it aloud was liberating.

His words did seem to have ground the other man to a complete, shocked stop, however. Steve's mouth bobbed a few times in an accurate impression of a fish, before, swallowing, he shut his mouth completely for a moment.

“I – you, you -”

“I love you, Steven Rogers,” Tony told him again, firmly.

The smile started off small – barely an upwards twitch of the lips – before, slowly, it morphed into the most blinding, heart-stopping grin Tony had ever seen on a human being. Steve Rogers was _radiant_.

“I love you, too,” he whispered, tears of his own shimmering in his eyes. Had Tony mentioned how pretty his eyes were? “I missed you, so much, and I am _so_ sorry -”

“Y'know, Clint said the others were going to arrive any minute to crowd around my no-longer-deathbed – and why the fuck weren't they all here in the first place, by the way? But, anyway, if you planned on kissing me – which I really think you should consider – I'd get to it,” Tony, once again, strategically cut him off, because this was _not_ Steve's fault.

He didn't like the way the other man immediately frowned, though.

“I -” he began, “- you're all right with me touching you? It's just, the doctors said emotional trauma can -”

Oh.

 _That_ was why he seemed so reluctant to touch Tony. “Steve,” he murmured, and only partly because his throat still hurt, “emotional trauma can wait until after you've kissed me, okay? Right now, I need you.”

Fuck, Steve was turning him into such a softy. But, as the blonde reached out and cupped his face gently – so gently, as though he were something _precious_ – and drew their faces together in a loving, sweet kiss, Tony couldn't find it within himself to care.

Things were still far from perfect. He was almost positive SHIELD would throw him through some sort of psych-eval as soon as he was ready to leave the hospital (which was _yesterday_ ), and he was also sure his nightmares would consist less of a cave, or a black hole, and more of a dark, windowless room for the foreseeable future, but, with Steve's soft lips softly working his own – just for the moment – all those thoughts melted away, and he could just _be_.


End file.
